The string of curses Colm had leveled at him would have made Lucy faint. When Colm had pulled out a knife, Harry had punched him in the nose. A tussle had ensued. Harry had been pulled off his former ironmaster by some of Pendergast’s employees as Colm had been dragged out and tossed into the street outside.
Harry caressed his wife’s thigh absently, considering how satisfying it had been to watch Colm stumble away. The rat.
“I’m going to redecorate,” Lucy said. “The coverlet currently on—our bed resembles nothing so much as stagnant water left in a muddy puddle.”
“Please, Mrs. Estwood. Be blunt with me.” He smiled against her skin.
“I don’t believe you could have found a more unappealing hue.”
Harry closed his eyes, listening to the birds and the sound of her heart. “You may do as you please, my lovely girl.”
A soft sigh escaped her at the words. She liked that. To be his lovely girl. Maybe Lucy wasn’tthathorrified to be wed to Harry.
“I’ve opened an account for you,” he said. “I’ll warn all the shops in Middlesbrough to await you and your pocketbook.”
“An account? Of my own?” Her fingers stilled in his hair.
“Yes. Funds to do with as you wish. I’m obscenely wealthy, Lucy. Spend whatever you like. As much as you want. Decorate as you see fit.”
“We require a gardener.”
“Tell Bartle to find one. If you feel we need additional staff, hire them. Order all the newspapers from London, because I know you like reading them. Books. Possibly frilly underthings. Which I happen to enjoy.”
A tiny snort of amusement escaped Lucy before she went silent. “I…thank you.” Harry felt her body tense beneath his. “I’ve never—that is to say, my father allowed me only a small amount of pin money, and only when it suited him.”
Harry assumed as much. He addedmiserly towards his daughterto the list of Waterstone’s sins. “There is enough money in your account that you could flee Yorkshire and move to Paris if you wished.” Not that Harry would ever let her go.
“I don’t speak French.” She laced her fingers with his. “Paris wouldn’t suit me, though I do enjoy a good pastry.”
Harry closed his eyes, soothed by the touch of her fingers sliding along his own. The sum he’d deposited for Lucy might overwhelm her. Gerald Waterstone had never been impoverished until recently, but he hadn’t been overly generous with his daughter. She had grown up around fine things, though none of it had been hers. Harry wanted Lucy to haveher own funds. Buy things she liked or merely wanted. Money represented a measure of independence, something she had been denied for most of her life.
“Purchase pillows.” His fingers stroked the soft skin of her thigh. “Coverlets that do not resemble a muddy puddle. Drapes. Books. Ribbons. Lemon drops.”
She giggled. “How did you know I like lemon drops?”
Because he’d been paying attention. His wife, now that she could have dessert or sweets whenever she wished, invariably passed over chocolate and toffee, always settling on lemon.
“You deserve a bit of freedom.” Not from him, of course. Harry was never letting go of Lucy. He was far too selfish. And more than half in love with her.
He wasn’t at all sure what he would do about it.
25
Lucy hummed as she walked up Vulcan Street, pulling her shawl more closely around her shoulders. She’d done something quite daring today. Something worthy of Romy, perhaps, or one of the other Barrington sisters. All things considered, she was rather proud.
Her husband had been greatly surprised and pleased to find Lucy at Pendergast with a basket in one hand. She’d decided to surprise him with lunch, packed by Mrs. Bartle, and hoped for a tour of the ironworks. Having never been inside one before, and given all she was learning about iron ore, smelting, and the like, Lucy was curious.
Harry had been most appreciative. After introducing her to his new ironmaster, he’d taken Lucy into his office, shut the door, and lifted her atop the desk.
“Raise your skirts, wife, so I may express my appreciation for your efforts.”
Lucy stumbled on the cobblestones just reliving what had been a very stimulating hour. Harry had taken her so roughly, the stack of ledgers on the desk had slid to the floor.
Glorious.
If she could whistle, she would. Reaching up, she straightened her bonnet, tucking up a stray curl that was bumping along her cheek.
Marriage to Harry was much more satisfying than Lucy could ever have hoped when she’d been that shy, silent girl at The Barrow. Nor had she spared much thought for Father, Dufton, and especially not Sally. There had been no letters demanding Lucy’s return. No more threats of an annulment. Thankfully—because Lucy was blissfully happy for perhaps the first time in her life.
